I-NRLF 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


, 


1897-98 


THE  JAMES   K.   MOFFITT   FUND. 

LIBRARY  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 

JAMES  KENNEDY  MOFFITT 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '86. 


Deceived >  l89 

Accession  No. ...8.2.625  •     Class  No._ 


CHANTS 

FOR  THE 
BOER 


JOAQUIN 


CB\ 

FILLER 


"tAnd  whether  on  the  scaffold  high, 
Or  in  the  battle's  van, 
The  fittest  place  for  man  to  die 
Is  where  he  dies  for  man." 


San  Francisco 

The  Whitaker  &  Ray  Company 

(Incorporated) 

1900 


Copyright,  190* 

by 
The  Whitaker  &  Ray  Company 

(Incorporated) 


For  the  right  that  needs  assistance, 
For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance, 
For  the  glory  in  the  distance, 
For  the  good  that  we  can  do. 


MOFFITT 
82625 


Find  here  not  one  ill  word  for  brave  old  England; 
my  first,  best  friends  were  English.  But  for  her 
policy,  her  politicians,  her  speculators,  what  man  with 
a  heart  in  him  can  but  hate  and  abhor  them?  Eng 
land's  best  friends  to-day  are  those  who  deplore  this 
assault  on  the  farmer  Boers,  so  like  ourselves  a  cen 
tury  back.  Could  any  man  be  found  strong  enough 
to  stay  her  hand  with  sword  or  pen  in  this  mad  hour? 
That  man  would  deserve  her  lasting  gratitude.  This 
feeling  of  abhorrence  holds  in  England  as  well  as 
here.  Take  for  example  the  following  from  her 
ablest  thinker  to  a  friend  in  Philadelphia: 

"  I  rejoice  that  you  and  others  are  bent  on  showing 
that  there  are  some  among  us  who  think  the  national 
honor  is  not  being  enhanced  by  putting  down  the 
weak.  Would  that  age  and  ill  health  did  not  prevent 
me  from  aiding. 

"  No  one  can  deny  that  at  the  time  of  the  Jameson 
Raid  the  aim  of  the  Outlanders  and  the  raiders  was 
to  usurp  the  Transvaal  Government,  and  he  must  be 
willfully  blind  who  does  not  see  what  the  Outlanders 
failed  to  do  by  bullets  they  hope  presently  to  do  by 
votes,  and  only  those  who,  while  jealous  of  their  own 
independence,  regard  but  little  the  independence  of 
people  who  stand  in  their  way,  can  fail  to  sympathize 
with  the  Boers  in  their  resistance  to  political  extinc 
tion. 

5 


"  It  is  sad  to  see  our  Government  backing  those 
whose  avowed  policy  is  expansion,  which,  less  politely 
expressed,  means  aggression,  for  which  there  is  a  still 
less  polite  word  readily  guessed.  On  behalf  of  these, 
the  big  British  Empire,  weapon  in  hand,  growls  out 
to  the  little  Boer  Republic,  "  Do  as  I  bid  you." 

"  I  have  always  thought  that  nobleness  is  shown  in 
treating  tenderly  those  who  are  relatively  feeble  and 
even  sacrificing  on  their  behalf  something  to  which 
there  is  a  just  claim.  But,  if  current  opinion  is  right, 
I  must  have  been  wrong." 

Herbert  Spencer. 


CHANTS 

FOR  THE  BOER 


JOAQUIN  MILLER 


TO  THE  BOERS. 

"for  freedom's  battles  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  from  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft,  are  ever  won" 

—B  YRON. 

The  Sword  of  Gideon,  Sword  of  God 
Be  with  ye,  Boers.     Brave  men  of  peace 
Ye  hewed  the  path,  ye  brake  the  sod, 
Ye  fed  white  flocks  of  fat  increase 
Where  Saxon  foot  had  never  trod; 
Where  Saxon  foot  unto  this  day 
Had  measured  not,  had  never  known 
Had  ye  not  bravely  led  the  way 
And  made  such  happy  homes  your  own. 

I  think  God's  house  must  be  such  home. 
The  priestess  Mother,  choristers 
Who  spin  and  weave  nor  care  to  roam 
Beyond  this  white  God's  house  of  hers, 
But  spinning  sing  and  spin  again. 
I  think  such  silent  shepherd  men 
Most  like  that  few  the  prophet  sings  — 
Most  like  that  few  stout  Abram  drew 
Triumphant  o'er  the  slaughtered  Kings. 

7 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 

Defend  God's  house!     Let  fall  the  crook. 
Draw  forth  the  plowshare  from  the  sod 
And  trust,  as  in  the  Holy  Book, 
The  Sword  of  Gideon  and  of  God; 
God  and  the  right!     Enough  to  fight 
A  million  regiments  of  wrong. 
Defend!     Nor  count  what  comes  of  it. 
God's  battle  bides  not  with  the  strong; 
And  pride  must  fall.     Lo,  it  is  writ! 

Great  England's  Gold!  how  stanch  she  fares 
Fame's  wine  cup  pressing  her  proud  lips — 
Her  checkerboard  of  battle  squares 
Rimmed  round  by  steel-built  battleships ! 
And  yet  meanwhiles  ten  thousand  miles 
She  seeks  ye  out.     Well,  welcome  her! 
Give  her  such  welcome  with  such  will 
As  Boston  gave  in  battle's  whir 
That  red,  dread  day  at  Bunker  Hill. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  September,  1899. 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 


TO    YE    FIGHTING    LORDS    OF    LONDON 
TOWN. 

CHRISTMAS  MORNING,    1899. 

"The  equipment  of  the  Maine  hospital  ship  by  our  American 
cousins  warrants  us  in  saying  at  least  that  they  wish  us  well." 

We  wish  you  well  in  all  that's  well, 

Would  bind  your  wounds,  would  clothe,  would 

feed- 
Lay  flowers  where  your  brave  men  fell 
In  desert  lands,  exalt  each  deed 
Of  sacrifice ;  would  beg  to  lay 
White  lilies  by  the  gray  hearthstone 
Where,  bowed  in  black  this  Christmas  day, 
She  wails  her  brave  dead  far  away 
And  weeps,  so  more  than  all  alone: 
Weeps  while  the  chime,  the  chilly  chime, 
Drops  on  her  heart,  drops  all  the  time 
As  one  might  drop  a  stone. 

But  you,  ye  lords  and  gentlemen 

High  throned,  safe  housed  at  home,  fat  fed, 

When  ye  say  we  approve  ye,  when 

Ye  say  this  blood  so  bravely  shed 

Is  shed  with  our  consent,  take  care, 

Lest  Truth  may  take  ye  unaware; 

Lest  Truth  be  heard  despite  these  chimes. 

This  hearthstone,  brother's  blood  that  cries 

To  God  is  Freedom's  blood.     Take  care 

Lest  all  sweet  earth  these  piteous  times 

—  9  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 

Not  only  hate  ye  for  your  crimes, 
But  scorn  ye  for  your  lies! 

We  would  forgive  could  we  forget: 
We  could  forget  all  wrongs  we  knew 
Had  ye  stayed  hand  some  little  yet — 
Left  to  their  own  that  farmer  few 
So  like  ourselves  that  fateful  hour 
Ye  forced  our  farmers  from  the  plow 
To  grapple  with  your  tenfold  power. 
They  guessed  your  greed,  we  know  it  now; 
And  now  we  ward  ye  from  this  hour! 
Now,  well  awake  no  more  we  sleep, 
But  keep  and  keep  and  ever  keep 
To  Freedom's  high  watchtower. 

Not  all  because  our  Washington 
In  battle's  carnage,  years  and  years, 
And  this  same  Boer  braved  ye  as  one — 
Blent  blood  with  blood  and  tears  with  tears 
Not  all  because  of  kindred  blood, 
Not  all  because  they  built  a  town 
And  left  such  names  of  true  renown.* 
Not  all  because  of  Luther,  Huss: 
But  most  because  of  Brotherhood 
In  Freedom's  Hall;  the  holy  right 
To  fight  for  Home,  as  freemen  fight — 
Who  Freedom  stabs,  stabs  Us! 


*NOTE. — "I  thank  God  there  is  not  a  drop  of  Saxon  blood  in 
my  veins.  I  am  a  Dutchman  ;  Boer,  if  you  please." — Rough- 
rider  Roosevelt,  Governor  of  New  York  and  heir  apparent  to 
the  Presidency  of  Us. 


—  10  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 


This  Nation's  heart,  say  what  men  may 

Who  butcher  Peace  and  barter  Truth, 

Beats  true  as  on  its  natal  day, 

Beats  true  as  in  its  battle-youth, 

Beats  true  to  Freedom,  true  to  Truth, 

Whatever  Tories  dare  to  say. 

Of  all  who  fought  with  Washington 

One  Arnold  was  and  only  one. 

Christ  chose  but  twelve,  yet  one  poor  soul 

Sold  God  for  silver.     Ever  thus 

Some  taint,  and  even  so  with  Us: 

But  Freedom  thrills  the  whole. 

My  Lords,  ye  lead,  through  Him  who  died, 
Your  dauntless  millions.     Ye  are  wise 
And  learned.     Ye  are,  beside, 
As  God's  anointed  in  their  eyes, 
Ye  sit  so  far  above  their  reach. 
Such  trust!     But  are  ye  truly  true 
To  what  He  taught,  to  what  ye  preach, 
To  those  who  trust  and  look  to  you? 
Then  why  mocked  ye  that  manly  Russ, 
That  august  man,  that  manliest  man 
That  yet  has  been  since  time  began? 
Ye  mocked,  as  ye  mock  Us! 

My  Lords,  slow  paced  and  somber  clad 
Ye  all  will  fare  to  church  to-day 
And  there  sit  solemn  faced  and  sad 
With  eyes  to  book,  as  if  to  pray. 
And  will  ye  think  of  Him  who  came 
And  lived  so  poor  and  died  so  lorn— 


—  ii  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 


Came  in  the  name  of  Peace,  the  name 
Of  God,  that  fair  first  Christmas  morn? 
My  Lords,  ye  needs  must  think  to-day — 
Your  eyes  bent  to  the  Holy  Book 
The  while  the  people  look  and  look — 
For  dare  ye  try  to  pray? 

And  while  ye  think  of  Christ  the  child 

Think  of  the  childless  mother,  she 

Whose  dead  boy  has  his  desert  wild, 

While  yours  his  Christmas  tree; 

Think  of  the  mother,  far  away, 

Who  sits  and  weeps  with  hollow  eyes, 

Her  hungry  child  that  cries  and  cries 

Forlorn  and  fatherless  to-day: 

Think  of  the  thousand  homes  that  weep 

All  desolate,  who  but  for  ye 

To-day  had  decked  their  Christmas  tree; 

Then  fare  ye  home  and — sleep? 


—  12  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 

MOTHER  EGYPT. 

Dedicated  to  England  on  her  invasion  of  North  Africa. 

Dark  browed,  she  broods  with  weary  lids 

Beside  her  Sphinx  and  Pyramids, 

With  low  and  never-lifted  head. 

If  she  be  dead,  respect  the  dead; 

If  she  be  weeping,  let  her  weep; 

If  she  be  sleeping,  let  her  sleep; 

For  lo,  this  woman  named  the  stars! 

She  suckled  at  her  tawny  dugs 

Your  Moses  while  you  reeked  in  wars 

And  prowled  your  woods,  nude,  painted  thugs. 

Then  back,  brave  England;  back  in  peace 

To  Christian  isles  of  fat  increase! 

Go  back!     Else  bid  your  high  priests  bear 

The  sword  and  curse  the  sweet  plowshare ; 

Take  down  their  cross  from  proud  Saint  Paul's 

And  coin  it  into  cannon-balls! 

You  tent  not  far  from  Nazareth, 

Your  camps  trench  where  his  child-feet  strayed. 

If  Christ  had  seen  this  work  of  death! 

If  Christ  had  seen  these  ships  invade! 

I  think  the  patient  Christ  had  said, 

"  Go  back,  brave  men !     Take  up  your  dead ; 

Draw  down  your  great  ships  to  the  seas; 

Repass  the  gates  of  Hercules ; 

Go  back  to  wife  with  babe  at  breast, 

And  leave  lorn  Egypt  to  her  rest." 

—  13  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 

Or  is  Christ  dead,  as  Egypt  is? 

Ah,  England,  hear  me  yet  again; 

There's  something  grimly  wrong  in  this — 

So  like  some  gray,  sad  woman  slain. 

What  would  you  have  your  mother  do? 
Hath  she  not  done  enough  for  you? 
Go  back!     And  when  you  learn  to  read, 
Come  read  this  obelisk.     Her  deed 
Like  yonder  awful  forehead  is 
Disdainful  silence.     Like  to  this 
What  lessons  have  you  writ  in  stone 
To  passing  nations  that  shall  stand? 
Why,  years,  as  hers,  will  leave  you  lone 
And  level  as  yon  yellow  sand. 

Saint  George?    Your  lions?    Whence  are  they? 

From  awful,  silent  Africa. 

This  Egypt  is  the  lion's  lair; 

Beware,  brave  Albion,  beware! 

I  feel  the  very  Nile  should  rise 

To  drive  you  from  this  sacrifice. 

And  if  the  seven  plagues  should  come? 

The  red  seas  swallow  sword  and  steed? 

Lo!    Christian  lands  stand  mute  and  dumb 

To  see  thy  more  than  Moslem  deed. 


—  14  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 


ANGLO-SAXON  ALLIANCE. 

England' s  Colonial  Secretary,  who  must  bear  a  great  Part  of  th  e 
blame  and  shame  of  this  Boer  war,  has  said  publicly  that  there  is 
something  like  alliance  between  England  and  the  United  Stales. 
Our  Secretary  of  State  says  there  is  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  we  know 
there  is  not,  nor  can  be,  until  "We,  the  People,'1''  choose  to  have  it, 
and  that  will  not  be  until  this  crime  against  the  Boer  is  forgotten, 
as  well  as  Bunker  Hill  and  the  Fourth  of  July. 

Alliance!     And  with  whom?     For  what? 
Comes  there  the  skin-clad  Vandal  down 
From  Danube's  wilds  with  vengeance  hot? 
Comes  Turk  with  torch  to  sack  the  town 
And  wake  the  world  with  battle  shot? 
Come  wild  beasts  loosened  from  the  lair? 
No,  no!     Right  fair  blue  Danube  sweeps. 
No,  no !     The  Turk,  the  wild  beast  sleeps. 
No,  no !     There's  something  more  than  this — 
Or  Judas'  kiss?     Or  serpent's  hiss? 
There's  mischief  in  the  air! 

Alliance!     And  with  whom?     For  what? 
Did  we  not  bear  an  hundred  years 
Of  England's  hate,  hot  battle  shot, 
Blent,  ever  blent,  with  scorn  and  jeers? 
And  we  survived  it,  did  we  not? 
We  bore  her  hate,  let's  try  to  bear 
Her  love;  but  watch  her  and  beware! 
Beware  the  Greek  with  gifts  and  fair 
Kind  promises  and  courtly  praise. 
Beware  the  serpent's  subtle  ways — 
There's  mischief  in  the  air! 

—  15  — 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 


Alliance!     And   for  what?     With  whom? 
She  burned  our  Freedom's  Fane.     She  spat 
Vile  venom  on  the  sacred  tomb 
Of  Washington;  the  while  she  sat 
High  throned,  fat  fed,  and  safe  at  home, 
And  bade  slaves  hound  and  burn  and  slay, 
Just  as  in  Africa  to-day; 
Just  as  she  would,  will  when  she  dare 
Send  sword  and  torch  and  once  again 
Make  red  the  white  rim  of  our  main — 
There's  mischief  in  the  air! 

Alliance !     Twice  with  sword  and  flame : 

Alliance!     Thrice  with  craft  and  fraud: 

And  now  you  come  in  Freedom's  name. 

In  Freedom's  name?     The  name  of  God! 

Go  to — the  Boers.     For  shame,  for  shame! 

With  wedge  of  gold  you  split  us  twain 

Then  launched  your  bloodhounds  on  the  main; 

But  now,  my  Lords,  so  soft,  so  fair — 

How  long  would  this  a-lie-ance  last? 

Just  long  enough  to  tie  Us  fast — 

Then  music  in  the  air! 


—  16  — 


Chants 
Far  the  Boer 


The  Boers  are  a  sober,  industrious  and  most  hospitable  body  of 
peasantry.— DR.  LIVINGSTONE. 

You  heard  that  song  of  the  Jubilee ! 
Ten  thousand  cannon  took  up  the  song, 
Ten  million  people  came  out  to  see, 
A  surging,  eager  and  anxious  throng. 
And  the  great  were  glad  as  glad  could  be; 
Glad  at  Windsor,  glad  at  Saint  James, 
Glad  of  glory  and  of  storied  names, 
Generals,  lords  and  gentlemen, 
Such  as  we  never  may  see  again, 
And  ten  thousand  banners  aflying! 
But  up  the  Thames  and  down  the  Thames 
Bare,  hungered  babes  lay  crying, 
Poor,  homeless  men  sat  sighing; 
And  far  away,  in  fair  Cathay, 
An  Eden  land  but  yesterday, 
Lay  millions,  starving,  dying. 

Prone  India!     All  her  storied  gems — 

Those  stolen  gems  that  decked  the  Crown 

And  glittered  in  those  garment-hems, 

That  Jubilee  in  London  town — 

Were  not,  and  all  her  walls  were  down, 

Her  plowshare  eaten  up  with  rust, 

Her  peaceful  people  prone  in  dust, 

Her  wells  gone  dry  and  drying. 

You  ask  how  came  these  things  to  be? 

—  17  - 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 

I  turn  you  straight  to  historic; 

To  generals,  lords  and  gentlemen 

Who  cut  the  dykes,  blew  down  the  walls 

And  plowed  the  land  with  cannon  balls, 

Then  sacked  the  ruined  land  and  then — 

Great  London  and  the  Jubilee, 

With  lying  banners  aflying. 

Eight  millions  starved  to  death!     You  hear?  * 

You  heard  the  song  of  that  Jubilee, 

And  you  might  have  heard,  had  you  given  ear, 

My  generals,  lords  and  gentlemen, 

From  where  the  Ganges  seeks  the  sea, 

Such  wails  between  the  notes,  I  fear, 

As  you  never  had  cared  to  hear  again. 

The  dead  heaped  down  in  the  dried-up  wells, 

The  dead,  like  corn,  in  the  fertile  fields 

You   had   plowed  and   crossed   with   your   cannon 

wheels, 

The  dead  in  towns  that  were  burning  hells 
Because  the  water  was  under  your  heels! 
They  thirsted!     You  drank  at  the  Jubilee, 


*See  report  of  Julian  Hawthorne,  sent  by  a  New  York  mag 
azine  to  photograph  and  give  details  of  the  starving  in  India, 
about  the  time  of  the  Jubilee.  He  does  not  give  these  figures, 
but  his  facts  and  photographs  warrant  a  fearful  estimate.  As 
for  the  subjugation  of  India  and  the  wanton  destruction,  not  only 
of  life,  but  the  very  means  of  life,  this  is  history.  And  now, 
again,  is  despoiled  India  starving, — starving,  dying  of  hunger  as 
before;  even  more  fearfully,  even  while  England  is  trying  to 
despoil  the  Boers.  And  when  her  speculators  and  politicians 
have  beaten  them  and  despoiled  them  of  their  gold  and  diamonds 
and  herds,  what  then?  Why,  leave  them  to  starve  as  in  India, 
or  struggle  on  in  the  wilderness  as  best  they  can. 

—  18  — 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 

My  generals,  lords  and  gentlemen, 
Drank  as  you  hardly  may  come  to  when 
The  final  account  of  your  deeds  may  be. 

Eight  millions  starved!     Yet  the  Jubilee- 
Why,  never  such  glory  since  Solomon's  throne. 
The  world  was  glad  that  it  came  to  see, 
And  the  Saxon  said,  "  Lo,  the  world  is  mine  own!  " 
But  mark  you !     That  glittering  great  Crown  stone, 
And  the  thousand  stars  that  dimmed  in  this  sun, 
Were  stolen,  were  stolen  every  one, 
Were  stolen  from  those  who  starved  and  died! 


Brave  Boers,  grim  Boers,  look  to  your  guns! 
They  want  your  diamonds,  these  younger  ones — 
Young  generals,  lords  and  gentlemen — 
Robbers  to-day  as  they  were  robbers  then. 
Look  to  your  guns!  for  a  child  can  see 
(Can  your  children  see  now  for  crying? ) 
That  they  want  your  gems!     Ah,  that  Jubilee, 
With  those  lying  banners  aflying! 


—  19  — 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


AT  THE  CALEND'S  CLOSE. 

"For  faith  hath  still  an  Olivet 
And  Love  a  Galilee" 

Two  things :  the  triple  great  North  Star, 

To  poise  and  keep  His  spheres  in  place, 
And  Zeus  for  peace :  for  peace  the  Tzar. 
Or  Science,  Progress,  Good  or  Grace, 
These  two  the  centum's  fruitage  are; 
And  of  the  two  this  olive  tree 
Stands  first,  aye,  first  since  Galilee. 

Christ's  centum  bends  his  frosted  head; 

Christ's  calend  calls  a  solemn  roll. 
What  shall  be  writ,  what  shall  be  said 

Of  Saxon  when  this  blood-writ  scroll 
By  God's  white  light  at  last  is  read? 
What  of  ye  Saxon  nations,  ye 
Who  prate  the  Christ  most  noisily? 

The  eagle's  bent  beak  at  the  throat 

Of  Peace  where  far,  fair  islands  lie: 
The  greedy  lion  sees  a  mote 

In  his  brave,  weaker  brother's  eye 
And  crouches  low,  to  gorge  and  gloat. 

The  Prince  of  Peace?     Ye  write  his  name 
In  blood,  then  dare  to  pray!     For  shame! 

These  Saxon  lies  on  top  of  lies, 

Ten  millstones  to  the  neck  of  us, 
Forbid  that  we  should  lift  our  eyes 

Till  we  dare  meet  that  manlier  Russ; 
In  peons  for  peace  of  paradise : 
Forbid  that  we,  until  the  day 
We  wash  our  hands,  should  dare  to  pray. 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


AS  IT  IS  WRITTEN. 

The  she  wolf's  ruthless  whelp  that  tare 
Old  Africa  is  dead  and  all 
Despised;  but  Egypt  still  is  fair, 
Jugaftha  brave;  and  Hannibal 
Still  hero  of  the  Alps  and  more 
To-day  than  all  red  men  of  Rome. 
Archimedes  still  holds  his  measured  home; 
Grim  Marius  his  ruins  as  of  yore, 
And  heart  still  turns  to  heart,  as  then. 
Live  by  the  sword  and  by  the  sword 
Ye  surely  die:  thus  saith  the  Lord — 
And  die  despised  of  men. 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


TO  OOM  PAUL  KRUGER. 

ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY. 

His  shield  a  skin,  his  sword  a  prayer: 

Seventy-five  years  old  to-day! 
Yet  mailed  young  hosts  are  marshaling  there 
To  hound  down  in  his  native  lair — 

Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Mars!     Ever  was  such  shameless  shame? 

Christ's  calend  calls  the  roll  to-day, 
Yet  Christians  write  the  sweet  Christ's  name 
In  blood,  and  seek,  with  sword  and  flame — 

Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Stand  firm,  grim  shepherd-hero,  stand! 

The  world's  watchtowers  teem  to-day 
With  men  who  pray  with  lifted  hand 
For  you  and  yours,  old,  simple,  grand — 

Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

God's  pity  for  the  foolish  few 

Who  guide  great  England's  hosts  to-day! 
They  cannot  make  the  false  the  true; 
They  can  but  turn  true  hearts  to  you — 

Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

—  22  - 


Chants 

For  the  Boer 


Or  king  or  cowboy,  steep  or  plain, 

Or  palace  hall,  where,  what — to-day, 
All,  all,  despite  of  place  or  gain, 
Are  with  you,  with  you  heart  and  brain — 
Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Brave  England's  bravest,  best,  her  Fair, 

Who  love  fair  play,  are  yours  to-day. 
And  oh,  the  heart,  the  hope,  the  prayer — 
The  world  is  with  you  over  there — 
Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 

USLAND  *  TO  THE  BOERS. 

And  where  lies  Usland,  Land  of  Us? 

Where  Freedom  lives,  there  Usland  lies! 
Fling  down  that  map  and  measure  thus 

Or  argent  seas  or  sapphire  skies: 
To  north  the  North  Pole,  south  as  far 

As  ever  eagle  cleaved  his  way; 
To  east  the  blazing  morning  star, 

And  west?     West  to  the  Judgment  Day! 

No  borrowed  lion,  rampt  in  gold; 

No  bleeding  Erin,  plaintive  strains; 
No  starving  millions,  mute  and  cold; 

No  plundered  India,  prone  in  chains; 
No  peaceful  farmer,  forced  to  fly 

Or  draw  his  plowshare  from  the  sod, 
And,  fighting,  one  to  fifty,  die 

For  freedom,  fireside  and  God. 

Fear  not,  brave,  freeborn,  voiceless  Boers. 

Great  Usland's  heart  is  yours  to-day. 
Aye,  England's  heart  of  hearts  is  yours, 

Whatever  scheming  men  may  say. 
Her  scheming  men  have  mines  to  sell, 

And  we?    Why,  meat  and  corn  and  wheat. 
But,  Boers,  all  brave  hearts  wish  you  well; 

For  England's  triumph  means  defeat. 


*  It  is  a  waste  of  ink  and  energy  to  write  "  United  States  of 
America"  always.  All  our  property  is  marked  Us.  Then  why 
not  Usland  ?  And  why  should  we  always  say  American  ?  The 
Canadian,  the  Mexican,  the  Brazilian  and  so  on  are  as  entirely 
entitled  to  the  name  American  as  we.  Why  not  say  Usman,  as 
Frenchman,  German,  and  so  on  ? 


—  24  — 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


THAT  USSIAN  OF  USLAND. 

Anent  the  boundary  line — "Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget." 

"  I  am  an  Ussian  true,"  he  said; 

"  Keep  off  the  grass  there,  Mister  Bull! 
For  if  you  don't  I'll  bang  your  head 

And  bang  your  belly-full. 

"  Now  mark,  my  burly  jingo- man, 
So  prone  to  muss  and  fuss  and  cuss, 

I  am  an  Ussian,  spick  and  span, 
From  out  the  land  of  Us!  " 

The  stout  man  smole  a  frosty  smile — 
"  An  Ussian!     Russian,  Rusk,  or  Russ?  " 

"  No,  no!  an  Ussian,  every  while; 
My  land  the  land  of  Us." 

"Aw!     Usland,  Uitland?  or,  maybe, 

Some  Venezuela  I'd  forgot. 
Hand  out  your  map  and  let  me  see 

Where  Usland  is  and  what." 

The  lank  man  leaned  and  spread  his  map 
And  shewed  the  land  and  shewed, 

Then  eyed  and  eyed  that  paunchy  chap, 
And  pulled  his  chin  and  chewed. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "     A  face  grew  red, 
And  red  chop  whiskers  redder  grew. 

"  I  want  the  earth,"  the  Ussian  said, 
"  And  all  Alaska,  too. 

—  25- 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


"  My  stars  swim  up  yon  seas  of  blue; 

No  Shind  am  I,  Boer,  Turk  or  Russ. 
I  am  an  Ussian — Ussian  true; 

My  land  the  land  of  Us. 

"  My  triple  North  Star  lights  me  on, 
My  Southern  Cross  leads  ever  thus; 

My  sun  scarce  sets  till  burst  of  dawn. 
Hands  off  the  Land  of  Us!  " 


—  26  — 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


FIGHT  A  BOY  OF  YOUR  SIZE. 

Back,  far  back  in  that  backwood's  school 
Of  Lincoln,  Grant  and  the  great  we  prize 

We  boys  would  fight,  but  we  had  one  rule — 
You  must  fight  a  boy  of  your  size. 

Or  white  boy  or  brown,  aye,  Boer  no  doubt, 
Whatever  the  quarrel,  whatever  the  prize 

You  must  stand  up  fair  and  so  fight  it  out 
With  a  boy  somewhat  your  size. 

But  a  big  boy  spoiled  so  for  fights,  he  did, 

He  lied  most  diplomatic-like-lies 
And  he  fought  such  fights — ye  gods  forbid — 

But  never  a  boy  of  his  size. 

He  skinned  and  he  tanned,  kept  hide,  kept  hair, 

Now  I  am  speaking  figure-wise — 
But  he  didn't  care  who  and  he  didn't  care  where 

Just  so  he  was  under  size. 

Then  the  big  boy  cried,  "A  big  chief  am  I, 

I  was  born  to  bang  and  to  civilize, 
And  yet  sometimes  I,  in  my  pride  I  sigh 

For  something  about  my  size." 

Then  the  good  Schoolmaster  he  reached  a  hand 
And  across  his  knee  he  did  flop  crosswise 

That  bully,  and  raise  in  his  good  right  hand 
A  board  of  considerable  size. 

—  27- 


Chants 
For  the  Boer 


And  the  good  Schoolmaster  he  smote  that  chief, 
He  smote  both  hips  and  he  smote  both  thighs; 

And  he  said  as  he  smote,  "  It  is  my  belief 
This  board  is  about  your  size." 


Beware  the  bully,  of  his  words  beware, 
His  triangular  lips  are  a  nest  of  lies, 

For  he  never  did  dare  and  he  never  will  dare, 
To  bang  a  boy  of  his  size. 


-28- 


MILLER,  C.  H.  (Joaquin) 

(The  Poet  of  the  Sierras) 

Complete  Poetical  Works 

4n  One  Volume 

i 

This  volume  completes  the  life  work  of  this  "  Sweet 
Singer  by  the  Sunset  Sea."  In  it  are  included  all 
the  best  poems  formerly  published  under  the  fol 
lowing  titles  :  "Songs  of  the  Sierras  "— "  Songs  of 
Sunland" — "Songs  of  Summerlands  " — "Songs 
of  Italy"— "Songs  of  the  Mexican  Seas  "— 
"Classic  Shades "— "  Songs  of  the  Soul"— 
"  Olive  Leaves  "—"  Joaquin,"  and  others.  The 
book  contains  330  pages  of  double  column  matter, 
printed  from  new  type  on  laid  paper.  Each  of  the 
longer  poems  is  followed  by  extensive  foot  notes 
written  by  the  poet  himself,  also  a  most  interest 
ing,  reminiscent  preface  and  appendix  narrating 
incidents  and  scenes  in  his  eventful  life,  never 
publisned  before.  It  has  several  illustrations 
showing  the  poet  at  different  ages,  also  a  beauti 
ful  scene  from  his  present  home  on  "  The  Hights." 

PRICE. 

Beautifully  Bound  in  Silk  Cloth,  side  and  back  stamp  in  gilt,  gilt  top  .  .$250 

Gift  Edition,  bound  in  three-quarter  Levant 4  50 

Limited  Autograph  Edition,  bound  in  full  Morocco 7  50 

WHAT  TWO   GREAT   POPULAR   POETS    SAY  : 

Edwin  Arnold  recently  said  :  "Joaquin  Miller  is  one  of  the 
two  greatest  American  poets." 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  said  of  Toaquin  Miller's  singing  :  "  It 
is  the  truest  American  voice  that  has  yet  thrilled  the  echoes  of 
our  wild,  free  land,  and  awakened  the  admiration  and  acclaim 
of  the  Old  World.  No  marvel  that  our  Country  is  proud  of  this 
proud  child  of  hers,  who  in  all  lands  has  sung  her  dawning  glory 
and  his  own  changeless  loyalty  to  her." 


MILLER,  C.  H.  (Joaquin) 

(The  'Poet  of  the  Sierras) 


Songs  of  the  Soul 


This  volume  contains  this  well  known  poet's  latest, 
and  as  pronounced  by  all  critics,  best  poetic  pro 
ductions.  The  longest  poem,  entitled  "Sappho 
and  Phaon,"  occupies  seventy-three  pages  of  the 
book,  and  is  destined  to  become  a  classic.  Besides 
this  there  are  several  of  his  older  and  most  popu 
lar  poems,  such  as  "Columbus,"  "Passing  of 
Tennyson,"  "  Sunset  and  Dawn  at  San  Diego," 
etc.,  making  a  12  mo.  volume  of  163  pages,  with 
author's  latest  portrait. 


PRICE. 

Bound  in  Fine  Silk  Cloth,  design  on  cover,  Library  Edition  .  .  .  $100 
Author's  Autograph  Gift  Edition,  bound  In  full  padded  Leather ....  3  50 
Paper  Edition,  printed  in  Gilt 25 


"If  Joaquin  Miller  had  written  nothing  else,  this  one  poem 
(Sappho  and  Phaon)  would  make  a  place  for  him  among  im 
mortals." — The  Wave. 

The  Critic,  in  a  recent  article,  places  him  among  the  world's 
greatest  poets. 

The  London  Athencenm  gives  "Columbus"  first  place 
among  all  the  poems  written  by  Americans  as  to  power,  work 
manship  and  feeling. 


YD052370 


>^MHP^ 


